


for the soul

by wekeepeachotherhuman



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Animals, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wekeepeachotherhuman/pseuds/wekeepeachotherhuman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You should get him a dog,” Sam suddenly says. </p><p>His tone is so flippant that Steve isn’t even sure if he should be taking him seriously, so he laughs. Sam’s eyes flick up to his and then he shrugs. “I’ve heard good things,” he adds. “Just a thought.”</p><p>Steve's smile slowly disappears and when he looks over at Bucky, his brow knit together, even in sleep, he can literally feel himself running out of options. Right now, he’d take just about anything to make this situation even a little easier for Buck. If that was even possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the soul

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted on my [tumblr](http://www.supernovastiel.tumblr.com)

Bucky hasn’t been sleeping well. So it should be nice to see him curled up on the couch, his knees up close to his chest, and his hand underneath the pillow he’d brought out from bedroom. But still, Steve can’t quite explain why feels like he can’t breathe. Opposite him, Sam is watching over him. He just knows. He doesn’t even have to look.  
The kitchen still smells like the dinner that he made for the three of them a few hours earlier. 

“Before you ask, I’m fine,” Steve says. He turns his head and lo and behold, Sam is turned his way, his eyebrows raised. “Not that whether I’m okay or not is the important question.”

“It is important, Cap,” Sam tells him. “So I’ll keep asking it.” 

He looks back down at his newspaper, missing the huge eye roll Steve gives him. 

He’s fine. He’s always fine. Bucky is alive. Bucky is here. He should be fine. But Christ, he hasn’t felt this anxious since before Erskine’s serum. 

“You know,” Sam starts again. “He should probably talk to someone.”

“And tell them what?” Steve asks, a little quicker and harsher that he meant to. He sighs heavily and rubs his forehead. “That he’s a brainwashed, trained assassin born in 1917?”

“I’m just saying,” Sam mumbles. 

Steve sighs again. He closes his eyes and hopes that when he opens them, things will go back to the way they were before the war, before the serum, before the decades he spent frozen in God knows where. 

“He’s not ready,” Steve says. 

Sam nods. “I get that, man,” he says. He put his newspaper down in his lap. “But when he is, I bet I could find somebody for him.”

Steve nods. He swallows his own anxiety and frustration and remembers his manners. “Thank you,” he says. 

Sam nods in response and flips the paper back open. His eyes scan the articles, but Steve knows he isn’t actually reading any of it. “You should get him a dog,” Sam suddenly says. 

His tone is so flippant that Steve isn’t even sure if he should be taking him seriously, so he laughs. Sam’s eyes flick up to his and then he shrugs. “I’ve heard good things,” he adds. “Just a thought.”

Steve smile slowly disappears and when he looks over at Bucky, his brow knit together, even in sleep, he can literally feel himself running out of options. Right now, he’d take just about anything to make this situation even a little easier for Buck. If that was even possible. 

\--

They’re called Emotional Support Animals. And just like Sam told him: they are good things. The amount of research he’s done on the matter is enough to convince him. But he still feels a bit ridiculous, bringing a puppy home. As he takes the few paces from the elevator to his apartment, he seriously considers just turning back. 

He stops at his front door. He leans forward and listens. Natasha is there. She and Bucky are speaking Russian to one another. Bucky is quiet and his sentences are short, but he sounds calm.

He opens up his door and they stop talking. Bucky looks up at him from where he is at the end of the couch. Natasha’s body is turned to face him, but she looks over her shoulder at Steve. She smiles, but then she stops and her eyes widen at the animal at his feet. 

“What…” She stands and steps a little closer. “…Is that?”

And if Steve had felt ridiculous in the hallway, now he feels mortified. He can feel his cheeks go hot and red. Bucky edges forward, leaning to the side to peer around Natasha. He looks a bit curious, but there’s also a blankness to him, like he’s in the middle of deciding between fight or flight. 

“It’s ugh,” Steve starts. He looks down at the small golden retriever puppy at his feet. The dog looks up at him, it’s tongue hanging out of it’s mouth, and it’s tail wagging. “It’s a dog.”

“Is this a mid-life crisis thing?” Natasha asks. Her eyes dart between Steve and the dog. 

“No, it’s not a mid-life—”

“A dog?” Bucky interrupts them. His voice had been so small that Steve had almost missed it. But he shuts his mouth and both he and Natasha turn to look at him. 

Bucky looks a little more confident, like he’s firmly decided that he’s safe. But his voice still doesn’t feel like his own. He stands, slowly. Steve grips the leash a little tighter so the puppy won’t dart forward at him. 

Bucky pads forward, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet. Natasha steps aside to let him see, but Steve knows her well enough: she’s on guard. She holds her breath when Bucky crouches down in front of the dog. The puppy clearly doesn’t really know what to make of him. It stammers backward a little bit, but when Bucky reaches his hand out to his nose, the puppy leans back forward. He leans close enough to sniff his skin, before he does what all dogs do: he licks Bucky’s fingers.  
Steve feels himself release a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding. 

Bucky smiles fondly, like this is a sensation he remembers. 

\--

Sam can hear Bucky training the puppy (who they’ve named Crosby) in the other room. He smiles to himself as he stirs the vegetable around the pan. Steve is sitting behind him at the kitchen table, scribbling down into his sketchbook. 

“Roll over,” Bucky says, softly. “Good boy…”

“This is the most I’ve heard this guy talk in…” Sam ponders it for a second. “Ever,” he finishes. He looks over his shoulder at Steve, whose nose is still buried in his book. 

“You can say that again,” Steve mumbles in response. 

The bitterness in his voice makes Sam stop. He puts the wooden spoon down on the stove top, casts a quick glance at Bucky in the sitting room, and then he turns on Steve. 

“He still not talking to you much?”

Steve sighs heavily. His hand stops working on the page and slowly, he looks up at Sam. “I would have told you if he had.”

Sam allows that. “He will.” 

“Yeah,” Steve answers dryly. “People keep saying that.”

“Because it’s the God-honest truth, that’s why.” Sam turns back to his cooking. “It’s just gonna take some time.”

“I know.”

Of course Steve knows it. Bucky’s been through hell and back. The least he deserves is a little time. The serum was supposed to make good things great. He was good—had been good enough to be noticed when he was scrawny. So if now, when he was supposed to be great, why did his frustration and resentment make him feel so shitty?

\--

Sam heads out pretty soon after they’ve all finished eating. 

And then it’s just Steve and Bucky. And Steve wants nothing more than for it to be easy. But it isn’t. It’s quiet, instead. They watch a documentary about migrating bison before Steve announces that he’s going to bed. 

Bucky looks almost disappointed, but maybe Steve is just reaching. 

He climbs into bed and falls asleep surprisingly fast. 

\--

The sun looks like it’s going to rise in the next half hour when Steve wakes up. He feels groggy, so for a few minutes, he just lies there, with his eyes closed, feeling like his body is going to dissolve into the mattress. He thinks he’s dreaming when he hears bare feet padding around out in the living room. 

He props up on his elbows, squints, and peers out towards his door. And he listens. It takes a second to realise that Crosby is curled up in a ball at the end of the bed. He allows himself a short moment of pride that Crosby chose to sleep here, before he remembers: padding feet. Padding feet mean Bucky’s awake. 

He looks at the clock. 5:19am. 

“…Crosby?...” Bucky’s voice is small. 

Next to Steve, Crosby stirs, knowing Bucky’s voice immediately. 

Steve sits up, his blankets pooling at his waist. “Bucky?” he ventures. Bucky doesn’t answer. “Bucky, he’s in here.”

Steve listens for his footsteps. He hears Bucky hesitate, but then he moves. And then he appears in Steve’s doorway. He’s in sweats and a long-sleeved athletic shirt. They’re Steve’s so they make him look small. His hair is a little damp with sweat. He fidgets with the drawstrings of his pants. 

He’s been dreaming. Steve knows the signs by now. 

“You want him?” Steve asks. 

He looks down and now, Crosby is really starting to wake up. He still looks sleepy, but his eyes are open and his tail beats softly against the bed. He can smell Buck.

“No, he can stay,” he breathes. 

Steve doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to offer instead. He knows Bucky doesn’t want to be alone, but Steve doesn’t want to push him. 

“Yeah?” he asks, just to hear his own voice. 

Bucky nods and then he steps forward. Steve holds his breath. He watches Bucky sit down on the edge of the bed. Crosby wriggles closer and nudges his nose into Bucky’s thigh. Steve can’t help but smile. 

“Do you want something to eat?” Steve asks. “I can make breakfast.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m still tired.”

Steve nods. “And you’re sure you don’t want to take him with you?” he asks, nodding down at Crosby. 

Bucky nods. “Yeah…” He takes a deep breath as he finds words the continue speaking. “I remember before the war.” Steve feels his chest tighten. “You were always sick.” Steve laughs lightly. He nods when Bucky looks up at him, urging him to continue. “I used to let you sleep in my bed when it got too cold.”

“Yeah, that was real nice of you, Buck,” Steve encourages. 

“Did it make you feel better?” Bucky asks. 

“You know it did…”

Bucky swallows hard and then he nods. “Could we try that again?”

Steve looks him over, a little uncertain, but too hopeful to really care. 

“If that’s what you want,” he says. Bucky hesitates and so instead of waiting, instead of pushing him to verbalize this thing he wants, Steve just moves over. He gives him half the bed and lets him decide if he’ll take the space. 

Slowly, Bucky climbs under the covers. He reaches down and lifts Crosby from his place at the bottom and places the dog in between them. He turns onto his side to face Steve, but he keeps his eyes on Crosby. Steve watches him play with the dog’s fur. They’re close enough that when Bucky pats down Crosby’s spine, the backs of his fingers touch Steve’s arm. 

Steve wonders if he should move, but he doesn’t. He lets Bucky touch him for the first time in… Well, decades. 

Bucky closes his eyes. His hair fall across his forehead. He looks young. Almost the way he had in 1940. Slowly, Bucky’s hand stops moving, but he keeps his hand on Crosby’s back. But the back of his fingers press against Steve’s skin a little harder, like he’s really meaning to do it. Like he’s always making sure that Steve’s still there.  
But Steve won’t move. Not until Bucky moves first.


End file.
